


Half The World Away

by orphan_account



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: 4 + 1 things, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Repression, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, oh gee shocker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 02:36:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8083330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Doyle stares down at Harry’s drenched clothes with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow, his hat spilling the excess water in the brim when he tilts his head to meet Harry’s eyes. His smirk seems to grow and Harry groans when he says, “It seems you’re all wet, Harry.”The medium snorts and Harry glares, “Shut up.”   Alternatively, four times they could have kissed and one time they did





	

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline is around maybe a year after the screen fades black on ep. 10
> 
> I don't touch base with Harry's ghost at all because ???
> 
> I'd say maybe two weeks in between each meeting except the last one but it's not terribly important either way.
> 
> Title is the name of a song by Aurora
> 
> Beta'd by loves-anathema over on tumblr :)))))))

_**i** _

 

It’s a gloomy London evening, the first time it happens, the rain has yet to stop from the morning before last and the fog is low against the ground. 

The rain feels much stronger running headlong into it and the fog whips around his legs as he takes off after their latest culprit, Doyle is shouting after him about not going alone but he pretends he doesn’t hear.

Before the trip to the States, before _Touie_ , Doyle would have chased after him, probably cursing Harry’s name under his breath the whole way but following close behind him, nonetheless. 

The man, a so-called medium that had kidnapped a little girl to prove himself, had abruptly stopped and Harry crashes into him, catching the man‘s suit coat and they tumble into the nearby puddles. The mud from the street quickly clings to their clothes as they roll around, Harry’s grip on the man tighter than Death’s ever could be. Their struggle catches the attention of Stratton and Doyle, Adelaide striding up to the mud-slicked duo with purpose, snatching the back of the medium’s collar and hauling him up with a grimace.

Doyle stares down at Harry’s drenched clothes with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow, his hat spilling the excess water in the brim when he tilts his head to meet Harry’s eyes. His smirk seems to grow and Harry groans when he says, “It seems you’re all wet, Harry.”

The medium snorts and Harry glares, “Shut up.”

Adelaide rolls her eyes but no one seems to notice, “Right. I’ll take him back and book him, shall I? See you two in the morning.”

They nod and bid her a goodnight as she all but frog marches the man off into the mist, heading in the direction of Scotland Yard. Doyle turns back to him, still grinning slightly as he offers Harry a hand up. 

He accepts it not thinking about how his hands are scraped and a little bloody from the fall onto wet pavement and Doyle turns his hand palm up and inspects the cuts with a dour look and gentle fingertips. Harry swallows at the soft brush against his palm, eyes darting away, his stomach warm despite the chilled air, taking his hand back and murmuring, “It’s fine, Doc, nothing to worry over.”

Doyle seems reluctant but doesn‘t reach for his hand again, “They need to be wrapped, Harry. They could get infected.”

Normally, Harry would snap at him but this is the first he’s seen Doyle in months, close to a year almost, and he won’t argue logic for the sake of their usual arguments. 

A droplet of rain hits the back of his neck for the sole purpose of reminding him that he’s without his suit coat and soaked to the bone, he lets the chill run through him, shaking at it like a dog before grinning at Doyle and hunching his shoulders. 

Doyle scoffs lightly before his face goes pensive, handing Harry his cane and slipping out of his overcoat. He wraps it quickly and snugly around Harry’s bowed shoulders, his actions still placid and comforting. Harry’s grasp on Doyle’s cane suddenly white-knuckled as the good doctor adjusts the collar to where it will protect Harry’s neck from the elements; he’s very close to Harry, his warm breath hitting Harry’s jaw.

He doesn’t seem to notice but Harry does, he watches Doyle’s brown eyes trail over Harry, searching for more injuries and Houdini cannot stop the quiet call of, “Arthur.”

Everything seems to slow down when Arthur looks up with a questioning glance, his gaze catching Harry’s and widening ever so slightly. His eyes, Harry notes, are doe-like and warm even in the damp. His doctor makes no move to back away, in fact, the opposite occurs as he tilts his head to the side, his hands still gently tugging and moving his coat around Harry’s shoulders. 

He pauses for a moment, brow furrowing as he searches Harry’s eyes, and says with the softest voice Harry has ever heard but is somehow louder than a bell’s toll as he speaks, “I’ve missed you.”

It would be the simplest thing, Harry knows, to press forward that last inch or so and bump his nose against Doyle’s cheek and… 

It ends, his fantasy, with Harry shoving Doyle’s cane back into his hands and pushing him back in the process, already turning as he mumbles his goodbye to the doctor, waving a hand, “Gotta get home and clean these off, Doc, catch you later.”

Doyle stands there for a minute or so, with the rain pouring over him, aching from no mortal wound, and mind empty of his usual logic.

 

_**ii** _

 

Harry doesn’t know where he is, the room is sickly warm and his eyes can’t seem to adjust to the darkness. He doesn’t remember the last place he was; his head feels so heavy. He tries to turn it and it snaps toward the right (?) wall when he thought he turned it left. His arms are pulled up and his wrists grate on each other if he tries to move his hands, his fingers twitch like the second hand on a clock. Everything feels wrong, his jaw is open and he’s only just noticed. 

He blinks hard and feels nauseous when the darkness seems thicker than before, his bones knocking about inside him like rocks in a burlap sack. 

Vaguely, he hears some voice in his skull tell him his dosage of opium is overfilled, overdosed, and he should panic, should start using his god-given talent to _escape_. He only turns his head ~~right~~ left.

“Houdini!”

No. no. no. Is he dead? Is this death? It’s horrible; it tastes so strongly of chalk and blood. 

Then suddenly, there’s **light**. Dear Christ, so much of it, his eyes snap shut and his teeth chatter as if he’s cold when he knows he’s not but now his body is shivering and it feels like he’s convulsing. There’s a harsh slap to his cheek that seems so infinite, everything telling him it’s striking clean bone rather than skin. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter before opening them and it’s like a circus carousel, vibrant and spinning and so many colours. The voices, slipping against his ears like water, are distant but not distant. The nausea returns and he needs to focus, focus, focus.

“Houdini, are you alright?” Someone asks, someone he knows and he has to be honest, can’t lie or…? Or? Something, there was something that would happen. 

He thinks he’s shaking his head and his chest feels lighter, he feels like he’s floating. He lets his eyelids slip shut but something pries one open and someone says his name, his name.  
He tries to open his eyes again, blink slowly, purposely as if it will clear his vision or his mind, he tries to open his mouth but he never closed it, “Mom?”

The nausea returns almost instantly, the act of speech throwing him off balance, it felt as if someone else spoke when he knows, he thinks, he was the one who did.

 _Ehrie_.

“Oh, Harry.”

That’s a different voice, a higher voice, one that asked questions he would rather not think about but suddenly it’s all that his mind knows.

_“Now,_

 

_Pain like that_

 

_Only comes from a couple of places.”_

 

_Pain like what?_

 

_Pain like mine?_

 

_Oh, god, it’s showing_

 

_“I‘ve seen how much you love your mother.”_

 

_She is all that is good_

 

_All that is right._

 

_“My question is_

 

_What did your father do to you?”_

 

 _He could not stand_

 

_Me_

 

_He would not look at_

 

_Me_

 

 _And_ _yet_

 

_“Nothing. I loved him very much.”_

 

**“Harry!”**

His pulse is racing and it feels as if he’s traveled years to get here, to get _back_ here. He heaves through what could only be his bones repositioning and an awful sound escapes his throat, his hands are in his lap now, free from suspension and trembling something awful. A steady hand covers one of his and his body leans forward, hitting the rise and fall of someone’s chest, he slurs, “Arthur? 

He makes a point of closing his lips after he speaks, his tongue flicking out to wet them and they taste of sand and beer.

“Harry, listen to me. You have been heavily drugged, Harry, do you know what they gave you?”

Everything is still heavy and lopsided but it is a nice voice, smooth and deep and something in Harry’s ribs twists up into spirals when he concentrates on it. He giggles against Doyle’s chest and his body yet shakes even when he stops. 

He tries to sit up further and it’s as if he is drowning, he crashes back onto the waiting chest and sobs. There’s shushing sound and he’s moved to the side so he’s practically sitting sideways in Arthur’s lap. It doesn’t last long, something lifts his arm and rests it over something else, a strong arm threads itself under his knees and another wraps around his shoulders, there a slight groan before he suddenly feels as though he’s floating.

The voice continues, others joining in as he floats upward, he tries to listen to them but everything is unintelligible to him and it’s much easier to press against the heat surrounding him. They get very loud at one point and he whimpers as the high starts heading to a plane of unevenness.

They disperse almost instantaneously.

He floats for what could be seconds or years before he’s set down on a mattress that had to be made purely of the softest cotton. He tilts his head up, unknowingly nosing at Doyle’s cheek, his lips mouthing words he truly cannot mean. Doyle sighs and covers the unmarked side of Harry’s face with his hand, pushing his strung out friend back into the pillows with ease. 

He sits on the edge of the bed and watches over Harry’s pipe dreams, making sure he will not slip too deep into them.

 

_**iii** _

 

Harry sits on the edge of his hospital bed, thinking nothing but ill regard of his doctor, the _wrong_ doctor, when the right doctor happens to walk in, case file in hand and chatting rather amiably with Adelaide as they walk over to him. 

Two weeks he’s been stuck in this recovery ward and his mood has been steadily heading downward since he woke in the middle of the night with a cold sweat dripping down his forehead and into his eyes. Doyle had been asleep on the end of his bed, face broken even in sleep and Harry was so utterly consumed with guilt in that moment. 

Now, Doyle smiles blindingly at him when he sees Harry staring at them, before nodding along to whatever Adelaide said, reply directed more at Harry than her, “While Harry was gone, of course.”

It was only natural; he tells himself, that his reaction was disproportioned and wrong as he snarls mockingly, “Of course.”

It shocks both Adelaide and Arthur, twin looks of disbelief aimed at him before Adelaide coughs, “Gentlemen.”

She turns swiftly around, leaving them alone once more. She’s been doing that a lot, not that either men have noticed, hoping that solitude will sort out their differences for them. She’s not blind. As for her friends, well, she could hardly say.

Arthur trades his surprise for annoyance rather quickly, “What has put you in a foul mood? Your swift recovery, perhaps?”

“ _What_ ,” Harry starts with sarcasm, “Would you know of my recovery?”

There’s a flash of hurt before Doyle masks it with by pinching the bridge of his nose, “A great deal, if you mind. I’ve been here every other day, Harry, what more could you ask of me?”

There he falters, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood, jaw clenched as he grits out, “While I was gone.”

Arthur raises a brow at him, “Excuse me?”

“No,” Harry growls, glaring up at the man, “While I was gone, what is that supposed to mean?”

He watches Arthur step forward, into his space as Arthur’s eyes darken, “A statement of fact, Harry, I apologize if you’ve read further into it than what it was.” 

Harry’s grip on his knee is tight and his bone aches, bruise already blooming under the skin, “Am I so easily replaceable, Arthur?

Arthur’s expression seems to close off all at once, lip twitching up in an almost sneer that makes Harry want to crawl back under the hospital sheets. Doyle seems to stand ever straighter, his voice muted, trembling even, as he speaks, “Is your opinion of me truly so low? Have I not proved enough to you? You mean so much to me, Harry, so dearly _much_. I could not imagine parting with you again, even though I know I will, as you will travel to your home. And I to mine with a bleeding heart for you, you who do not trust me enough to tell me what is wrong but would rather chastise me for sins I have not committed. Ironic, in fact, that in this instance my only sin is _**you**_. I cannot sleep well when you are not, I cannot feel joy when you do not, I have become so unreservedly attached to you that I fear I will break when you take your leave from me. Dear Christ, you expect me to replace you? I can scarcely breathe without you!”

Harry stands abruptly to stop Arthur from finishing his sentence, finding himself too late, his mind reeling. 

But there they stand again, so close, much too close to be proper but Arthur does not back away, gaze harsh as steel, splitting Harry into thousands of little pieces that only Arthur could put back together. 

There’s a split second where that gaze falls to Harry’s mouth and gentles almost instantly as it trails back to Harry’s own stare, it is full of grief and longing before Doyle bows his head slightly, practically disappearing, leaving Harry standing alone by his bedside, dumbfounded.

Later, as Harry dresses to leave, he finds Arthur’s cane leaning against his bed and something in him soars.

 

_**iv** _

 

A man knocks on a closed door to a respectable house; a coat that is not his over his arm, a cane in his hand, and a black eye that shines with discolored skin if the setting sun sheds any of it’s light on it. He seems a rather anxious man, his grip on the cane tight and his lip caught between his teeth, gnawing it red. 

The housekeeper of this respectable house opens the door with all the grace of her years, her eyes lighting on the man and turning warm as she smiles and ushers him into the house. He stands awkwardly in the foyer as she bustles around him, taking the coat away and hanging it on a rack near the door but ignoring the cane when he tries to pass it off to her. 

“Dr. Doyle is in the study,” she says, her voice reminding the man of his mother’s, or at least, he thinks it does, it has been so long since he has heard it that it is distant in his ears, “You go right in, dear.”

“Vera,” the man begins but stops when he receives an unexpectedly stern look and he nods sheepishly, heading toward the study and the infamous doctor.

When he comes to another door, he pauses. 

On this one, he does not knock. 

He hesitates briefly as he toys with the knob, when he enters this room, he will no longer simply ’the man’, he will be Harry Houdini and the other occupant will be Arthur Doyle and everything that he feels will either die or bloom larger than life. 

Harry doesn’t delay any longer, turning the handle and entering the room. Doyle doesn’t look up from his type writing, the keys clacking away as the fire pops and hisses happily from the hearth, he mutters something that sounded like Vera and Harry takes the opportunity to observe, quietly shutting the door behind him and leaning on it.

Doyle’s face is open as he writes, his eyes lit with thousands of adventures and tragedies in the depth of a seemingly simple hazel shade. Harry knows better. He watches Arthur’s fingers dance, trip, and slide over the letters that form his stories, indeed some of _their_ stories. He tries to ignore the swelling in his chest. A moment or so passes and Doyle suddenly stops, eyebrows creasing as if he’s forgotten some important thing and he glances up in gentle annoyance. His hands, which had wandered around the typewriter aimlessly, stop. He watches Arthur swallow and tense as if waiting for a blow. It hurts, somewhere beneath his ribs, that base reaction that Arthur can hardly control, truly hurts him.

Maybe he waited too long in coming, maybe he should have chased after Arthur the minute after he left Harry alone in that hospital.

Maybe all that. 

Harry smiles, a half stitched thing that only upturned one corner of his lips as he waved the cane gently. “Hello.”

Arthur opens his mouth only to close it, his eyes searching Harry as per his usual and Harry all but preens under his gaze. He doesn’t want to lose this, doesn’t want to leave again. He steps forward, toward Arthur, toward everything he wants and his heart goes from his throat to his stomach when Arthur smiles at him. He has seen this smile before, usually reserved for Arthur’s children, only a precious few directed at him and each time is as the first, as if he is Doyle’s world.

His eyes burn slightly, tears building for no reason. 

Arthur rises from his seat instantly, in front of Harry before he could blink, his gaze worried as it runs over Harry’s face and when his hand comes up to cradle Harry’s cheek, the hot tears finally spill over. 

Harry closes his eyes, dropping the cane as a small whisper escapes him, “I missed you, too. I-Oh, god, Arthur.”

A rough thumb wipes away some of his tears before resting on the back of his head and Doyle’s free hand comes to rest on the side of Harry’s neck, pulling him tenderly into Arthur’s chest. He goes willingly, eager as he wraps his arms around Arthur, shoving his face under Arthur’s chin. He can smell the last lingering traces of aftershave and everything in him tells him he‘s home.

Arthur chuckles and Harry feels his chest rumble with it as his doctor asks, “Why on earth on you crying?”

He snorts weakly and swats at Arthur’s back, voice shaking, as he pulls back to tease, “Don’t be a dick.” 

Arthur only smiles again. 

Harry had mastered not looking at Doyle’s mouth long ago but it was all in vain in that moment, his knees weak as he curved his head to the side and leaned up.

Abruptly, there is a knock on the door and the two men pull reluctantly apart. Harry watches as Arthur smoothes his hair and straightens his waistcoat before he opens the door. 

Vera stands there, knowing twinkle in her eyes as she sizes up the two men, before she smiles, wide and true, informing Arthur, “I’m taking the children with me on a walk. A nice stroll on this blustery day will do them good but as I‘m sure they‘ll want to see Mr. Houdini before he leaves, I wanted to ask you, sirs, when he was planning on saying his farewells.”

Arthur goes rigid, his eyes sickeningly blank as they turn to Harry and Harry would rather die in front of his crowds than see them so devoid of life. He grins charmingly at the housekeeper as he replies, “Until you can’t stand the sight of me anymore, Vera.”

Vera smirks at her employer’s dumbstruck expression and nods twice, “I’ll prepare the guest bedroom on my return then, shall I?”

With that, she dips her head, gently easing the knob out of Doyle’s grip and closes the door.

 

_**(+) v** _

 

Arthur blinks at the wall for what seems an eternity before looking to Harry, whose grin is still in place. He licks his lips, cocks his head, and peers at him, hungry and desperate for what he said to be the truth. He stalks toward Harry, slow, calculated. He is waiting for that touch of anxiety to remind Harry what he is doing, waiting for Harry to bolt and knowing that he would not let him even if he tried. 

He stays silent, walking nearer and Harry stands, not a step back or forward. Just so, watching Arthur approach him with something like envy but a touch deeper, a stroke harder. 

When he is there, there where he has been before only to have Harry run or convince himself that Harry was indifferent, it is a balm against that aching wound. 

When he speaks, “Did you mean it?”

Harry’s grin stretches, his bright eyes reflecting only mischief, “Mean what?”

Arthur steps the last step he can take without standing on Harry’s shoes and he growls, “Harry.”

Harry’s grin slips a little, his eyebrows arching up and his eyes close for a half-second before he leans in and brushes his lips against Arthur’s ear, “Of course I did, darling.” 

Harry is near him now, pliant now, it would be a simple thing to reach up and caress his jaw line. Arthur leans forward on instinct. Harry looks up at him, sparkling eyes clear as crystal and all the more lovely for it, his mouth open slightly and Arthur longs to rub his thumb against Harry’s bottom lip.

“We, uh, that is, we shouldn’t, uh,” Harry stutters, his fingers knocking against Arthur’s hand, lightly tracing up it. 

Arthur goes to step back but Harry grasps his wrist, gentle enough that he could break it if he truly wanted but that has never been something he desired, always the opposite, always wanting to be closer to Harry. He wonders if Harry can feel his pulse, the way it is thundering in his ears makes him sure that he does. 

He leans forward a touch more, his mouth opening ever so slightly and his bottom lip catches Harry’s top lip so easily, like sliding two parts back whole but when Harry jerks back, he doesn’t follow, won‘t press anything. He watches Harry shudder, the hand around his wrist unbreakable now, “Jesus, Arthur.”

It was barely a brush, hardly a kiss at all but Harry acts as if he had _come_ then and there. The reaction does nothing to help Arthur’s already feeble restraint. His hand comes up to cradle the nape of Harry’s neck, his fingers twisting around Harry’s curls and pulling back ever so softly but enough to have unmitigated access to Harry‘s mouth. He aches to taste Harry, to truly _touch_ him, and he cannot help the quiet plead that slips past his lips, “Harry.” 

He dips in again, slower still, giving Harry the time to back away and praying that he does not, and _oh_ , he does not.

Harry tugs his lapels so sharply, crushing Arthur’s mouth to his, tongues sliding against each other, teeth bumping, it’s so horrible and satisfying, within it a youthful awkwardness that makes Arthur’s very soul tremble against this man. He pushes Harry until he hears his back hit the wall, almost trapping Harry in with the way he looms over him, swallowing up anything Harry is willing to give. He has to pull away, has to breathe, it almost hurts to do so, his forehead resting against Harry’s as he takes deep ragged breaths. 

Harry’s eyes are still closed and his redden lips quirk up in that smug grin as he breathes Arthur’s name again before the grin falls and his name is replaced with a murmured, “Sorry,” as he takes a gulp of air only to repeat his apology, “Sorry, I left. God, Arthur, I couldn’t stay, not when every moment I looked at you, I only saw this, I couldn’t lose you and I couldn’t have this and you were _grieving_ -

Arthur kisses him quiet, gentle and understanding in a way that makes Harry whimper against him, god knows it isn’t the first time but it always arises a growl from deep within him, ready to fight for Harry‘s sake. He pulls away to watch Harry’s eyes droop to a half-lidded stare. He studies Harry’s face, a map he never wishes to forget, hoping he’ll be able to trace it with his fingertips in the light of dawn. 

Oh, yes, he grieved. 

Touie will always be a part of him, a part missing now but another part had left in those months when Harry was away, thinking he’d never see his companion again, pouring over memories to make sure he had not offended Harry on accident.

His free arm winds around Harry’s waist and he slides further against the man, tilting his head and seizing his mouth again. Tracing his tongue across Harry’s bottom lip, politely if silently asking permission to enter, asking permission to be somewhat _whole_ once more. 

Harry lets him, after all their childish bickering and their vicious arguments, he yields to Arthur as if that’s all he’s ever wanted, as if he‘d be content to live out his days pressed against the floral wall print if only Arthur stayed this close. 

In that moment, nothing could ever tear him away.

**Author's Note:**

> __  
>  ~~Adelaide and Vera totally know how hella queer those two are, fight me.~~   
> 


End file.
